I closed my eyes to creation when I beheld his beauty, I became intoxicated with his beauty and bestowed my soul. For the sake of Solomon’s seal I became wax in all my body, and in order to become illumined I rubbed my wax. I saw his opinion and cast away my own twisted opinion; I became his reed pipe and likewise lamented on his lip. He was in my hand, and blindly I groped for him with my hand; I was in his hand, and yet I inquired of those who were misinformed. I must have been either a simpleton or drunk or mad that fearfully I was stealing from my own gold. Like a thief I crept through a crack in the wall into my own vine, like a thief I gathered jasmine from my own garden. Enough, do not twist my secret upon your fingertips, for I have twisted off out of your twisted fist. Shams-e Tabriz, from whom comes the light of moon and stars–though I am grieving with sorrow for him, I am like the crescent of the festival.